


you're the book that I long to read

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Kink, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need to practice my Gallifreyan," River says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the book that I long to read

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers** : This isn't for profit, just for fun. All characters & situations belong to Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, BBC, and their various subsidiaries. Title from a song by David Ryan Harris, which I also had nothing to do with.  
>  **A/N** : This has no spoilers that I can think of. It does have some writing on the body kink, which was a fun thing to try out. [leiascully](http://leiascully.livejournal.com) is, as always, invaluable for reading these things before I post them.

"I need to practice my Gallifreyan," River says, looking up at him with that beguiling smile she always wears when she's about to make trouble.

"Yes, well," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets, "you've got your notebook and all. You can practice writing in that."

"And so I do," she nods, but even as she says it she's putting the notebook down and striding purposefully toward him. "But you can't read my notebook, sweetie. How ever will you check my work for accuracy?"

"Tear a page out," he suggests, blinking down in confusion as she tugs off his jacket.

"Never. All I need," she's saying, busy fingers already at work on his bow tie, his shirt buttons, and his braces, "is a nice, flat surface." She pushes his unbuttoned shirt apart, her fingernails skittering lightly across his bare chest before she tugs off his jacket and shirt and tosses them over the railing.

"You can't write on _me_ ," he says, terribly scandalized, but a bit titillated, too. "Not in _Gallifreyan_."

"Why ever not?" River asks. She traces a slow, lazy circle on his abdomen, and he shivers, which is an odd reaction, really, because usually the more she touches him the warmer he feels, and this moment is no exception.

"Because," he sputters, waving his arms but making no genuine attempt to move away from the mesmerizing touch of her fingertips against his skin, "it's a very important language, Gallifreyan, as I believe I've informed you. Burning stars, creating worlds, that's Gallifreyan! You can't just go writing it everywhere willy-nilly, it's irresponsible! It's reckless! It's--what are you doing?"

"Whatever I like, as usual, my love. And don't worry: I'm hardly up to writing in Old High Gallifreyan, so no worlds will be created on this day. I'll be very, very careful with what I write." She pulls a marker pen from her pocket and uncaps it, staring thoughtfully at him. After a moment, she seems to come to a decision, and slowly, deliberately, she begins to write.

"Yes, all right," he says, quite after the fact, momentarily mesmerized by the swish and tug of the pen as she drags it carefully across his skin.

The marker pen she has chosen is larger than the fine-tipped jobs she uses when she scribbles away in her diary after their adventures, but even so, the broad, flat tip of it is firmer against his skin than he had expected, but not uncomfortable enough to hurt as it presses into his flesh. It feels unusual at first, the pen sliding across his chest, and he finds that after she makes a mark, the curious sensation of touch does not cease, but seems to resonate, like every written line on his skin is singing and the rest of his body has immediately taken up the same refrain. He wonders what she's writing, and he squints downward, trying to discern meaning in the upside-down version of the loops and swirls that he can see. It's her _name_ , he realizes after a moment, she's writing her name, and oh, that's an interesting feeling, really, because it's more than just the slide of the pen and the marks it leaves it its wake, it's River _claiming_ him with his very own language, making that language her own and taking him with it. After all this time alone, it is exciting to be claimed, to be wanted.

He wants her, he discovers, the thought finally blooming into being just as she finishes writing the last circles and lines of her name on the ticklish skin of his ribcage. His trousers are uncomfortably snug, and it's very hot in the TARDIS just now, he thinks, closing his eyes as River hums in satisfaction and reaches up to write a message on the soft flesh of his inner arm. He doesn't know what she's writing, though he's sure if he concentrated enough he could tell, just by the motion of the marker, but of course that would require him to see his way past glorious visions of River currently blossoming behind his closed eyes, the beauty and splendor of her sprawled across the bed that they share, naked but for hundreds of intricately woven words drawn all over her magnificent body. He thinks of drawing on her and whimpers a little, inadvertently shifting away from her, and for once she misinterprets what he's thinking and looks up at him, frustrated.

"Look, I've told you, I'm not writing in Old High Gallifreyan, so there's no need to be that way," River scoffs, and he waves his hands, distracting her.

"No, no, it's, only...well. I seem to be having a bit of a problem," he admits, glancing down in the general direction of his trousers and his, ah, delicate situation.

"Oh, _sweetie_ ," she drawls, leaning against him and shifting her hips until he whimpers again, "that isn't a problem, that's a challenge."

"I suppose I have risen to the occasion," he jokes, and she groans at the pun, but she takes him by the hand anyway, tugging him toward one of the comfy chairs near the console.

"Trousers off," she commands, and he willingly does her bidding, kicking the clothes away. He watches her discard the dress that she's wearing, licking his lips at the sight of her.

"River," he says quietly, reaching out to draw his fingers along her collarbone, sketching words with his fingertips. "You're a wonder, River Song."

"I know," she replies, beaming, and turns to rummage in her bag for a moment, giving him a delicious view of the curves of her hips and ass before she turns back to him, spare marker pen in hand. "It seemed unfair for me to have all the fun."

"Quite," he manages to say, uncertain of what words he will give her.

"You can write whatever you like, you know," she says, breaking into his thoughts. "There's no need to fret about it."

"You always did read me like a book," he says, and she smiles and traces the line of his jaw with her fingertips. "No spoilers there, surely."

"Surely not. Cover to cover, my love," River says, running her hand over her work, fingers tracing over the loops of her name on his chest, the string of words running along his arm. She looks pleased with herself, and rightly so: she has made no mistakes that he can see.

She pushes at him gently and he sits down in one of the chairs while she studies his body, her blank canvas, waiting for her lay claim to some new area of him. River kneels in front of him, grinning, and for a moment it seems that she has forgotten her purpose, but then she slides her hand from his knee down along his inner thigh, nudging his legs apart so that she has room to write. Her fantastic hair falls down over her shoulders, preventing him from being able to watch her as she works, and he pushes it back with care.

"You're not writing," she says, her voice light and teasing, just like the pen against his leg.

"I'm thinking," he tells her, but even as he says it, he knows what he will write.

He draws on her back, then, enjoying the way she shivers and moans as he scribbles his little messages on the nape of her neck, writing until words of love are spilling down and down, across her shoulderblades. He writes her future; he writes his past. She won't ever read this-- he'll make sure of that, he thinks, almost growling with pleasure from the quick strokes of the words she's writing on the inside of his thigh-- and so he takes this opportunity to tell her all the things he has always wanted to tell her. He covers her with affirmations and valedictions, hopes and fears; he gives her everything and keeps nothing for himself. He feels like he's existing on her words alone, like all his constituent atoms have been combined solely to please her.

River works her way down one of his long legs and up the other, a cascade of Gallifreyan flowing over him like the body of water she has taken for a name. She writes with an agonizing slowness, yet he is loath to tell her to hurry, because as much as he wants her, he wants this, too, this connection between them.

She laughs as she doodles the Gallifreyan word for "thrust" on his thigh, then looks up at him and winks. "Now there's a message for you," she says, punctuating her words with a teasing stroke of her hand against his cock.

"Too much," he groans, reaching for her, and to his relief she complies with his unspoken request immediately, climbing carefully but quickly into his lap and sliding down over him with an exquisite sigh. She grips his shoulders and pushes against him and he groans, revelling in the feel of her, of the two of them moving together, faster, faster, until the world around them collapses in a dizzying intense rush of pleasure, all their passion and need coalescing into one singular moment of exultation, a moment that lasts longer than the time it takes to transpire, just as the words they have written on their bodies hold more meaning for the two of them than even the beauty of the symbols can convey.

"Very nice," he gasps, blissfully collapsing against the back of the seat, arms still encircling her, inky lines of beaded sweat already working to undo all their scrivening. "Full marks. Aha!"

"You're terrible," she laughs. She rests her head against his shoulder. "Though you've given me an idea for something I want to learn to write."

He strokes her back, carefully blurring the lines of his messages to her. "And what is that?"

"How exactly does one write 'no puns allowed,' in Gallifreyan?"


End file.
